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You can see the whole series in a tag here, or start at the Estonian border here. In its heyday, Kronstadt was an unbelievably strong fortress. An ill-maintained coastal road took us to our first destination, Fort Krasnaya Gorka Redhill, essentially.
There were little trios of red-white-blue streamers hanging from trees, combining to form a Russian tricolour, but for some the blue had broken off and instead made a Polish flag. Among the fortifications I found a lightbulb the size of a newborn baby; then a 10cm railway gun, on a rotating turret with folded stabilisers; and then a Past the gun are lines of masonry emplacements in varied states of collapse, some so intact we could crawl through their tunnels lined with curious pipework I eventually recognised as a fire suppression system , some indistinguishable from the dunes around them.
During the Revolution, the soldiers here got cold feet about the whole Bolshevik thing, and Lenin sent Trotsky to deal with it. Trotsky promised safe conduct to the soldiers if they surrendered peacefully; they did, and he machinegunned every man jack of them. Classic Trotsky. Driving across the barrage, over and then briefly under the water, we came to Fort Konstantin, which was once an arrowhead-shaped island battery but is now just a weird protuberance off the motorway.
Konstantin is much better preserved than Krasnaya Gorka, if still disarmed, and we echoed ghost noises down its dark, dripping halls; I followed the tracks of a shell trolley, from the base of the gun barbette to a shell hoist down into the bowels of the fort, and the rails taking it to the magazine chambers, under metres of brick and earth. Then we hopped on a little boat — blankets provided, and needed, even in midsummer — taking us to Fort Alexander.
